


1962

by tunipping (sruoh)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Frottage, Historical Hetalia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sruoh/pseuds/tunipping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was 1962, and America was pissed.</p><p>(or alternatively, the Cuban Missile Crisis, tulips, and names)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1962

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any historical inaccuracies! Most of the things mentioned were things I found in my history textbook, so I tried my best to incorporate it into here. I'm a sucker for historical hetalia, so really this is a product of me indulging in myself.
> 
> There's also small mentions of NedCan and RusAme, but it's not really the main focus of the story, and can be ignored for the most part if you're just here for the AmeCan! However I did mention tulips a lot because I'm a dang sucker for the tulip festival.
> 
> Either way, please enjoy!

When they speak, America doesn’t call him Canada.

It’s just something that they never did when they were together, not as countries, but as friends. The way Canada rolls off his tongue, CA-NA-DA, makes him want to choke on those sounds because it often reminds him of stuffy political talks where they’re seated and tucked away off to the side of their bosses.

The Nation Representatives rarely ever played a huge role within the government, but are often used as consultants for their bosses, as well as communications between countries with the occasional signing of important documents.

This usually meant America was stuck in boring meetings discussing trade agreements or other political matters that he frankly doesn’t care too much about, but has to pretend that he does or else his boss would have his ass and he’d be stuck with more paperwork than humanely possible. However, this also meant that America was bored out of his mind, and the only real joy he gets is trying to see how long he could twirl a pen around his fingers (although one time it ended badly when he accidentally hit France’s boss squarely between the eyes in the NATO summit of ’57 which resulted in a sharp kick under the table from Belgium because France was too far away)

So because of this, America wasn’t just America with Canada, and Canada wasn’t just Canada with America. Together they became Alfred F. Jones, and Matthew Williams. America couldn’t imagine calling him anything else, not since the American Revolution.

However, he seemingly forgot this fact in October 1962.

When Khrushchev, Russia’s boss (or was it the Soviet Union? He could honestly care less about that) agreed last minute to dismantle the missile bases in Cuba in exchange for the promise that they wouldn’t invade Cuba, America had physically deflated in relief. His body was taut and constantly under the stress of having to deal with the threat of war. It didn’t help that the whole world was ready to watch the U.S and Cuba go up in flames if they decided to blow each other up.

Despite his hatred and loathing towards to seemingly growing presence of Communism (the feelings that were reflected onto his people, his government—or were they reflected onto him?) he was still wary of the use of Atomic bombs, especially after seeing the condition of Japan when his government dropped Little Boy and Fat Man (he tried to justify their actions to himself by saying it ended the war sooner, that Japan deserved it because of his army in China, but in reality he couldn’t look him in the eye for years, and it only proved to cause Russia to confirm his doubts and mistrust, as if America cared about such silly things like that).

After his relief, he remembered something that suddenly caused him to flare up in anger, and book the earliest flight into Vancouver despite the people in his government demanding that he stay within the borders of his own country.

Canada—his government—had turned their back on the United States. He remembers hearing it from his boss, on the news, and from his people. Canada had refused to place its NORAD forces on alert, nor let U.S. planes with atomic weapons to land on Canadian bases. They were furious, and so was he. America wasn’t sure how distinct, how different his feelings were between his people’s, if they were actually just one being in the first place, but one thing he knew was that needed to talk to _Canada_ right now before he lost his goddamn mind.

Canada had given a spare key to his small, modest home in Vancouver, which was tucked away in the pocket of his slacks (he didn’t even have time to change from his work clothing when he caught the flight) as he stepped through the doorway. He didn’t even bother making his presence known, because he had a knack that Canada already knew he was here.

He made his way through the home, having already memorised where everything was, considering the size.  Everything in the flat was sparsely decorated and neat. It was hardly as lavish as his home in Ottawa, but even America preferred this when given a choice.

America still felt the anger bubbling within him, but the flight had mellowed him out, and as his eyes glanced over the few amount of pictures kept here, he even found himself smiling fondly, softly. There were photos of Canada and him, of his strange white bear, of France and England, and even India, Australia, New Zealand and…Hong Kong, was it? There was also an alarming amount of photos of Canada and the Netherlands, framed in designs of tulips in an array of colours which he hadn’t noticed or even seen before. Just when was the last time he was in Canada’s Vancouver home? America made sure to keep note of those photos and ask him about that later.

He stopped when his eyes fell on a small photo of Cuba laid carefully on the table in the living room, with Canada and his old boss—who was it again? — sandwiching him in the middle, all of them smiling proudly, and he suddenly felt the anger consume him again. He made his way to kitchen, nearly stomping. As he entered the room, he noticed Canada’s back was turned to him, his hips swaying and moving to some French-Canadian radio station, probably cooking lunch, now that America thought about it. Canada might’ve been moving his lips along with the music too, but America didn’t want to focus on that.

“Canada,” He started with his voice hoarse and rough. It was such a foreign feeling, saying it outside of politics, but he argued that this _was_ politics, and steadied himself as he took in a deep breath, arm resting on the frame of the doorway. Canada spoke up before he could open his mouth again.

“Hey Al,” Canada turned the stove off and turned around. He was making Kraft Dinner, one of America’s favourite things that Canada made, despite its simplicity. “You didn’t tell me you were coming; I would’ve made enough for the both of us.”

America scowled at that, his face turned sour as he stalked towards Canada and cornered him at the edge of the counter in between the stove and the sink. Canada’s face, which was sickeningly open and sweet just moments ago, morphed as America moved towards him, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed and his bottom lip in between his teeth as he tried to lean away from him.

America practically snarled when he said, “Don’t call me ‘Al’” his lips were curled in a sneer, “I’m here to discuss something with you.” Canada merely rolled his eyes in response and shoved at him with his foot as he tried to squeeze his way past the other nation.

“Yeah, okay Alfred, how about we sit down and—“

“Don’t call me that!” America yelled as he grabbed Canada by the front of his button-up and pulled him back in front of him, and once again Canada was trapped as they stood eye to eye. They hardly remembered when that started to happen. “Don’t call me by that name. You don’t deserve it right now. I’m America to you, hell, even the United States of America would do just fine right now if you fancied it.”

Canada sighed, going limp after tensing in America’s grasp. “Fine _America_ , let me go, then we can discuss whatever has gotten you all riled up.”

America reluctantly pulled away, his sharp gaze still on Canada has he placed himself none to gently in the chair of Canada’s small square table, neatly covered in a table cloth, with a small arrangement of red tulips adorning the center. America began to get sick of seeing them, feeling an irrational sense of bitterness, remembering what he saw when he first entered the house.

With his gaze returning back to Canada, he saw as Canada clicked the radio off, poured himself a bowl of macaroni, still steaming with heat, and placed himself across the table from America. America was startled at first. He wouldn’t call himself a very serious person, but even he wouldn’t dare _eat_ while trying to converse with someone (despite him being guilty of sneaking food multiple times into meeting rooms).

“What the hell?”

“What do you mean?” Canada shoved a mouthful of the orange noodles into his mouth, chewing with his mouth closed. That was probably the only polite thing he was doing right now. America could feel his heart quicken.

“I mean,” America leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. If Canada refused to show respect around him, he’ll do the same. “What the hell are you doing?  Why are you acting so casual? After what has happened…” he trailed off, staring as Canada cocked his head to the side. He was finished with the bite of food, and was lazily licking the sauce off the spoon. He was staring straight at America.

“Hmm?”

“Jesus Christ Canada!” America slammed his right first hard into the table. The tulips in the vase nearly toppled over, but Canada caught it with his free hand before it could. “I’m talking about Cuba for God’s sake! You know, fucking Russia—Soviet Union—whatever! He has been sending missiles to Cuba. Just yesterday they announced they would be dismantling the bases, I just—” America let out a huff of air, trying to catch his breath, “It’s been the talk of the month! Has your government not been telling you anything!?”

Canada toyed with the flowers in the vase, rearranging them to how they were before.

“Ah.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” Canada began, leaning back in his chair. He had placed his spoon back into his bowl, his meal suddenly forgotten. “I’m glad there’s no longer a threat. It would have been pretty bad, you know, I’m right next to you and—“

“Exactly!” America interjected loudly, leaning over the table again. Canada sighed as he had to steady the tulips again.

“Exactly what?”

“Exactly why you should have helped! What the hell was your boss thinking!?” America couldn’t believe the audacity of his boss to refuse to help them. They were supposed to be partners, best friends, hell, America would have even called him his _brother_ if they were human.

“He was thinking that…” Canada paused for a few moments, eyeing his bowl of nearly untouched food, swirling it with his spoon. It seemed he was trying to find the right words to say. “He was thinking that maybe Canada, I mean, we, should be more independent. He thought he was defending that.”

America groaned. “Bullshit! You can’t really expect me, my government to accept that? Don’t tell me you think the same way.”

“Your problem with Cuba is your own. My boss was reluctant because he felt it was just that. He didn’t want us drawn into a major conflict rooted in American policy and interests, we weren’t—“

“You’re supposed to be on our side! You’re part of NATO and NORAD for God’s sake, act like it!” America pushed away from the table then. The red tulips tipped over and water splashed all over the cloth and the floor. There was a small chip in the vase. Canada had winced, and stood up, placed his food on the kitchen counter and grabbed a towel to wipe up the mess.

“What the hell America, those were from Tim…”

“Who? The Netherlands? What, you’re on first name basis with him now, huh?”

Canada gave him a frosty look, but was careful as he placed the tulips back into the vase, and bent down to clean up the water that had dripped down onto the floor. “Yeah, so what? We’ve been friends ever since WWII and it’s not like you and me aren’t. Well,” Canada got back up with a groan and threw the wet rag onto the counter. “Are we? On first name basis, I mean.”

America stopped then. His back was facing Canada, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his bomber jacket that he hadn’t taken off yet.

Were they? They’ve been calling each other by their human names for decades. They’ve had their disputes, but their countries were still close, despite their differences. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. After this crisis, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

America sighed and turned around. Canada was leaning against the table, legs crossed. America looked at him carefully then, at that moment. He looked so _tired_ , maybe as tired as Alfred. He still felt a horrible bitterness in the back of his throat, but he didn’t feel as angry as he did a few minutes ago. “I don’t know. I don’t know how our relations will be after this. My government is furious with yours and… I think the damage is done.”

Canada looked down at the ground, defeated. “Yeah, I know.”

“Then why did you let it happen?”

“You know we don’t have a lot of power in the government, what was I supposed to do?” Canada shook his head, his fingers going up to play with his hair; it was getting a bit long. He needed a haircut. “Heh, you know, my people were unhappy with it too. They believed it wasn’t the right thing either. At the time though, I agreed with my boss. I thought maybe we shouldn’t have gotten involved but…”

“Yeah, whatever Matthew, it’s fine. It’s over and done with, we can’t change the past.” America sighed, moving towards Canada. He didn’t realize he slipped back into calling Canada by his human name, but he felt sense of….forgiveness? Apology? When he wrapped his hands around Canada’s waist, which Canada returned and wrapped his strong arms around him. America let his chin fall into the crook of Canada’s neck and inhaled. He smelled like rain and smoke. Like Vancouver.

“I’m sorry,” America could feel the vibration of Canada’s words in his chest, in his ear. He flushed the softest shade of pink, not out of embarrassment but,—how should he say it—affection from feeling the warm air against his skin. “Sorry for trying to ignore the situation earlier. I was hoping I could ignore it, and we’d go back to normal.” Canada laughed then, bitterly “I guess it was a bit naïve of me to think that.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” America tightened his grip around Canada’s waist, bringing him flush against him. Canada groaned softly, barely, and America could feel the smallest of smirks on his lips. “It’ll work out eventually, surely.” America brought his lips to Canada’s neck now and mouthed at it. Warm, chapped lips barely brushed the soft vulnerable skin there, before leaving the lightest of nips. He still kissed and licked at the bites, however.

Canada left out a breathy sigh, seemingly relaxing into his embrace but tensing at the same time as he tried to give America a questioning look. “Ngh… _Fuck_ , Al, what are you doing?”

“How long has it been since it was just the two of us?” America sighed soft and warm, still occupied with the expanse of Canada’s neck.

“I don’t know, _too_ long.” Canada accentuated his words with a roll of his hips, grinding against America. America could feel his cock grow hard, and he gave Canada a warning bite, which only caused him to repeat the action, this time making them both gasp.

“Aah, holy _shit._ Mattie, babe, keep doing that _please oh my God._ ” America groaned. At this point, he was pinning Canada against the table, wedged between Canada’s thighs, and from behind him he could see the tulips precariously perched at the edge. If they repeated the action any more, it was surely to fall. America smirked.

“I wasn’t planning on that, _mon cher._ ” And with a roll of his hips, Canada had America moaning loudly into his neck, kissing and licking as his gun calloused hands made their way under Canada’s shirt. Canada thought they were warm and so, so nice, and he barely had half the thought of removing both his and America’s glasses before grabbing him by the front of his suit (his tie, really) and brought their mouths together in a kiss.

It was hot and passionate, with Canada nipping at America’s bottom lip, before America let his tongue brush against Canada’s. Their lips moved, and teeth clicked together awkwardly, like teenagers, as they fought for dominance.

America ground hard against Canada’s cock, too impatient to even think about removing their clothes making him moan into the kiss, as America’s hands ran up and down Canada’s side and stomach, feeling the hidden, there but rarely seen ,muscles there. In the back of his mind, he thought that his suit was _definitely_ ruined, but it flew out the window as he felt Canada starting to meet his thrusts with his own, making him forget about such silly things in the first place.

They continued to hump against each other, the squeak of the table beneath them, and the sound of their gasps and moans the only sound in the room. They pulled away from each other long enough for them to catch their breath, and America could feel the heat in the pit of his stomach burning and coiling. How was he so close already?

“ _Fuck_ Mattie please I need to come, I need you so badly.” America moaned, breathy and hot and _wet_ as he licked his lips, his face flushed and pink. Canada was in the same position; his lips were red and bruised and he looked so _fucking_ beautiful and oh god how America missed this.

He felt Canada’s hand reach the front of his shirt as he tried to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt, which was a bit difficult as America continued to move his hips against Canada’s, making him pant.

When Canada finally got his shirt undone (though he was certain he lost a few buttons), he could feel Canada’s hands run across and down his chest, his fingers tickling the sensitive skin there.  Through his haze, he realized he forgot about the marks previously there, as he saw Canada narrow his eyes, a knowing look on his face.

He prayed to God that Canada didn’t know about him and Russia, but knowing him, he probably did. Canada didn’t say anything however, deciding to keep his mouth shut and occupied as he traced over fading hickeys and bites, lapping at them, making them a harsh and red again, hummed while doing so.

America quickened his thrusts down, searching for release. He brought up one hand out from under Canada’s shirt to pull them back into a kiss, warm and heavy. Canada groaned, meeting America’s every thrust, hands tangling in his hair and pulling, making America gasp into the kiss.

“Yes, oh God _yes_ right there Alfred, ngh…” Canada pulled away to groan, voice low and husky. He was close, America could feel it.

“Come on Mattie, come for me, please, aahh, yes, come on baby just a bit more—“ America continued his grind, switching between quick hard thrusts and ones that dragged on for what seemed like hours. Until Canada gasped, burying his face into America’s neck, letting out a long, guttural moan as he sunk his teeth hard into the exposed skin and came, shuddering and weakly moving his hips as he tried to prolong the feeling.

America lost his rhythm then, and quickly reached his release, his thrusts sporadic as he moaned Canada’s name, his _nickname_ , the one that felt right, like home.

When he came off his high, feeling disgustingly sweaty and sticky, and hoped that Canada would let him use his shower, he moved off him to stand (more like lean) against the table. As he did so, there was a loud crash, and Canada, who was still recovering, breaths shallow, let out a swear, followed by an “Alfred!” as the vase of tulips he tried so desperately to save from America’s aggression, lay on the floor sad and broken.

Despite his protests, America helped Canada clean up the mess, with Canada placing the scarlet red tulips in a cup as their temporary home.

As they swept up the remnants of the vase, Canada spoke up voice, his voice soft. “You know, red tulips are supposed to express that you’re deeply in love.”

America recalled that the Netherlands had given Canada these flowers. He stopped, looking up at him as they knelt on the floor of the kitchen of Canada’s home in Vancouver. He feels his chest tighten.

“Do you love him, the Netherlands, I mean?”

Canada didn’t answer, didn’t even look into Alfred’s eye. He stood quickly and threw away the broken pieces of the vase. He grabbed his unfinished lunch and sat down at the kitchen table, the one they were just dry humping on. He didn’t seem to care, however. He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes, and America suspected that it must’ve felt disgusting, considering he was uncomfortable just sitting there.

America didn’t push the topic of the Netherlands however, as Canada didn’t seem to want to answer. He instead, remembered something his boss once said. He found himself reciting it before he could stop himself. “ _Geography has made us neighbors. History has made us friends. Economics has made us partners. And necessity has made us allies._ ” America looked at Canada, who looked as if he was on the brink of tears, but he wasn’t sure if it was just the light playing tricks on him.

“ _Those whom nature hath so joined together, let no man put asunder._ ” Canada finished, his voice cracking at the final word.

Canada sat at his kitchen table, holding a bowl of mac n’ cheese, a cup of red tulips sitting in the middle, slightly damaged, not as bright and perky as before, with America sitting on the floor. He looked up at Canada, his eyes looking fondly at the man before him. His eyes were soft, but oh so tired.

“Mattie, we’ll be alright.” America said as his finger dragged across the tiled floor.

“Yeah, America. I know.” Canada took a bite of his food. It was cold.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I kind of ended it on a sad note, but I sorta wanted to convey their relationship in that way? Like not the best friends for life, but the type to have their fights. However, maybe I'll make a small series based off historical stuff I know about, who knows! I actually haven't written in years, so hopefully this wasn't too rusty. Also, the quote Alfred and Matthew recite was one actually said by JFK, and it's probably one of my favourites. Thanks for reading!


End file.
